07-28-2014, 08:17 PM
“I can guarantee that you won’t like what you see.”
Psh, yeah right. All that’s here in this closet is the same room I just left, which while a little bit odd in its own right is really nothing compared to the prophesying that the receptionist gave. As I walk through the faintly lit room, I can’t help but notice very minor differences with the room; the first and foremost being that the room feels bigger, if only slightly. I don’t know if that’s actually true or if my mind’s just playing tricks on me. I shake that feeling off and trudge, still half asleep, through the replica of my hotel room nestled within its closet.
With each step I take, the lights begin to flicker. On and off, and on and off with each passing step as I pull my hand away from the wall and really peer through the dim, partially illuminated room, I notice three things of utmost importance.
One, that the replica of the room contained another closet door. Something that could go one of two ways; either it’ll open to an actual closet and all would be right with the world because my grasp on the gravity of the situation I’m currently in is matched only by my detached apathy regarding it. Or, it’s going to go the realistic route. Realistic as in the more probable possibility; it’ll open right into another replica. So on and so on.
Two, there is no discernible source of light in the room. None at all. Yet the room, as faintly as it is, is lit.
And three, there’s a faceless mannequin sitting on the bed, slouched over as if it were crying.
On seeing the third thing, I jump back a bit and clamp my hand tightly onto my mouth. Inhaling any urge to scream until I start to breath in the palm of my hand, I try to regulate my breathing as much as possible while I stare wide eyed and confused at the thing in here with me. Its elbows rest on its thighs and its hands press against its temples, almost giving off a forlorn feeling so strong it encapsulates the entire room around us. WIth one hand still up against my lips, I backpedal slightly while keeping my eyes fixated on the oddity and with my free hand slowly push the door shut. I don’t know why I’m doing this; though I guess I’d chalk it up to not wanting it, whatever it is, to get out.
As I keep all of my attention trained on it, I start to notice something else about its appearance that the initial shock glossed over my ability to recognize sooner. It’s decayed. Or decaying I should say. Rotting. What I guess to be previously white is instead a nauseating off white mixed with a putrid yellow. The same color as the door. The same color as the receptionist’s teeth and nails. The exact same color. Not variations on the same combinations no, the exact same thing for each of them. It’s almost as if it’s following me but obviously that can’t be the case. Gah, it’s right about now where I regret getting out of bed to investigate the voice, oh wait the voice! Where was that in all of this, anyway?
And it’s right about here where I expect the voice to start talking again. Disembodied of course because I haven’t been led on long enough for the source of the voice to reveal itself just yet; no, I doubt that’ll happen until two, maybe three more excursions through the same room using the power of this infinite loop I’ve gotten myself into. Maybe that’s what he meant by not opening the closet, that I’ll be dragged deeper and deeper into some kind of sick, mind breaking exercise and I’ll wake up mentally and physically broken, half buried in some rain soaked ditch off the side of the road in this little slice of nowhere hell. Thinking through that a little bit more, it seems a little too farfetched even for the imagination of the person I’m supposed to be, but it’s still enough to keep me from wanting to open this closet’s door.
Again, without moving my eyes from the thing, hell without even blinking since seeing it, I start to notice my hand subconsciously feeling its way around for the door handle, wherever it was. After seconds of seemingly fruitless searching, I grab onto it and start to turn it. Only when I try to turn it do I find that its stuck and won’t open. No matter how much I budge, shake, and downright yank on the handle, nothing I do will make it turn an inch. Nothing I do does anything but make noise. My eyes peel away from the mannequin for a moment and to the door. How seeing the door handle would help me open a door, I don’t know. But for some reason I think it will. I even pull my hand away from my mouth for a minute and press it against the jagged, splintery wood on the door’s surface. An action that really only gets me one thing: a splinter. Right smack dab in the middle of my palm. So, like any sane person would do when trapped in a room with a potentially deadly mannequin monstrosity that might not have known I was even here until about fifteen seconds ago, I scream. Loudly. Well more accurately I yell the word fuck at the top of my lungs, but in a voice so strained and burdened with the combined weights of pain, shock, and dread that instead it came out more like a pained scream of nothing intelligible.
With sudden apprehension, I turn my head, look back at the bed to see the mannequin sitting in the same exact spot. I start to sigh in relief until I look closer at it and realize that its hands are now in its lap, and its featureless head is looking up and at an angle, right at me. I swallow hard and easily forget about the piece of wood in my skin as I step an inch or two closer to the thing. Why closer? I don’t know. Maybe because my only way of escaping it is locked and I can’t get it open. Well, it isn’t my only option for escape but-- no. Not using the other closet.
The mannequin doesn’t move, but the way it stares at me almost makes me wish it would. I take another step closer, dragging my unwilling feet across the floor as I come again just another couple of inches closer to the thing that would no doubt be the cause of my nightmares for weeks afterwards if I even get out of this place alive.
This keeps up, persists, for much longer than I want to admit. Until I finally make it all the way across the room, from the entrance to the bed, right up next to the thing itself. All the while the things only movement being its head to keep figurative eye contact with me at all times.
And then it reaches out and grabs me by the wrist! Gasping, I try to pull away from the thing but its grip ends up being much too strong and it pulls me in. Closer to it. Its hand is cold and rubbery, despite its hard plastic appearance. I scream, I scream loudly. As loud as I possibly can, and not a word this time. Just a wild, uncontrolled, frantic hoorah of fear and a lust for escape. Now, if only anyone could hear me.
As the things rubbery hand tightens around my wrist, it yanks me closer, forcing me off balance momentarily before giving me a few moments to straighten out.
“Help...me…”
There it was again. Closer than ever before. It had to be in this room, it very well had to be and if I could get out of this fucking thing’s clutches I’d be all over trying to figure out what it was. Then I’d be more than happy to yell at it for getting me in this situation in the first place and revoke my offer of help.
However, as I finally regain my sense of balance, I steady my focus once more on the mannequin thing that has me trapped.
It’s grown a face. Not just any face though.
Diaz’s face.
“Help...me…” the Diazequin mutters in short choppy bits, almost as if any speaking at all pains it greatly.
“Help...me…”
Psh, yeah right. All that’s here in this closet is the same room I just left, which while a little bit odd in its own right is really nothing compared to the prophesying that the receptionist gave. As I walk through the faintly lit room, I can’t help but notice very minor differences with the room; the first and foremost being that the room feels bigger, if only slightly. I don’t know if that’s actually true or if my mind’s just playing tricks on me. I shake that feeling off and trudge, still half asleep, through the replica of my hotel room nestled within its closet.
With each step I take, the lights begin to flicker. On and off, and on and off with each passing step as I pull my hand away from the wall and really peer through the dim, partially illuminated room, I notice three things of utmost importance.
One, that the replica of the room contained another closet door. Something that could go one of two ways; either it’ll open to an actual closet and all would be right with the world because my grasp on the gravity of the situation I’m currently in is matched only by my detached apathy regarding it. Or, it’s going to go the realistic route. Realistic as in the more probable possibility; it’ll open right into another replica. So on and so on.
Two, there is no discernible source of light in the room. None at all. Yet the room, as faintly as it is, is lit.
And three, there’s a faceless mannequin sitting on the bed, slouched over as if it were crying.
On seeing the third thing, I jump back a bit and clamp my hand tightly onto my mouth. Inhaling any urge to scream until I start to breath in the palm of my hand, I try to regulate my breathing as much as possible while I stare wide eyed and confused at the thing in here with me. Its elbows rest on its thighs and its hands press against its temples, almost giving off a forlorn feeling so strong it encapsulates the entire room around us. WIth one hand still up against my lips, I backpedal slightly while keeping my eyes fixated on the oddity and with my free hand slowly push the door shut. I don’t know why I’m doing this; though I guess I’d chalk it up to not wanting it, whatever it is, to get out.
As I keep all of my attention trained on it, I start to notice something else about its appearance that the initial shock glossed over my ability to recognize sooner. It’s decayed. Or decaying I should say. Rotting. What I guess to be previously white is instead a nauseating off white mixed with a putrid yellow. The same color as the door. The same color as the receptionist’s teeth and nails. The exact same color. Not variations on the same combinations no, the exact same thing for each of them. It’s almost as if it’s following me but obviously that can’t be the case. Gah, it’s right about now where I regret getting out of bed to investigate the voice, oh wait the voice! Where was that in all of this, anyway?
And it’s right about here where I expect the voice to start talking again. Disembodied of course because I haven’t been led on long enough for the source of the voice to reveal itself just yet; no, I doubt that’ll happen until two, maybe three more excursions through the same room using the power of this infinite loop I’ve gotten myself into. Maybe that’s what he meant by not opening the closet, that I’ll be dragged deeper and deeper into some kind of sick, mind breaking exercise and I’ll wake up mentally and physically broken, half buried in some rain soaked ditch off the side of the road in this little slice of nowhere hell. Thinking through that a little bit more, it seems a little too farfetched even for the imagination of the person I’m supposed to be, but it’s still enough to keep me from wanting to open this closet’s door.
Again, without moving my eyes from the thing, hell without even blinking since seeing it, I start to notice my hand subconsciously feeling its way around for the door handle, wherever it was. After seconds of seemingly fruitless searching, I grab onto it and start to turn it. Only when I try to turn it do I find that its stuck and won’t open. No matter how much I budge, shake, and downright yank on the handle, nothing I do will make it turn an inch. Nothing I do does anything but make noise. My eyes peel away from the mannequin for a moment and to the door. How seeing the door handle would help me open a door, I don’t know. But for some reason I think it will. I even pull my hand away from my mouth for a minute and press it against the jagged, splintery wood on the door’s surface. An action that really only gets me one thing: a splinter. Right smack dab in the middle of my palm. So, like any sane person would do when trapped in a room with a potentially deadly mannequin monstrosity that might not have known I was even here until about fifteen seconds ago, I scream. Loudly. Well more accurately I yell the word fuck at the top of my lungs, but in a voice so strained and burdened with the combined weights of pain, shock, and dread that instead it came out more like a pained scream of nothing intelligible.
With sudden apprehension, I turn my head, look back at the bed to see the mannequin sitting in the same exact spot. I start to sigh in relief until I look closer at it and realize that its hands are now in its lap, and its featureless head is looking up and at an angle, right at me. I swallow hard and easily forget about the piece of wood in my skin as I step an inch or two closer to the thing. Why closer? I don’t know. Maybe because my only way of escaping it is locked and I can’t get it open. Well, it isn’t my only option for escape but-- no. Not using the other closet.
The mannequin doesn’t move, but the way it stares at me almost makes me wish it would. I take another step closer, dragging my unwilling feet across the floor as I come again just another couple of inches closer to the thing that would no doubt be the cause of my nightmares for weeks afterwards if I even get out of this place alive.
This keeps up, persists, for much longer than I want to admit. Until I finally make it all the way across the room, from the entrance to the bed, right up next to the thing itself. All the while the things only movement being its head to keep figurative eye contact with me at all times.
And then it reaches out and grabs me by the wrist! Gasping, I try to pull away from the thing but its grip ends up being much too strong and it pulls me in. Closer to it. Its hand is cold and rubbery, despite its hard plastic appearance. I scream, I scream loudly. As loud as I possibly can, and not a word this time. Just a wild, uncontrolled, frantic hoorah of fear and a lust for escape. Now, if only anyone could hear me.
As the things rubbery hand tightens around my wrist, it yanks me closer, forcing me off balance momentarily before giving me a few moments to straighten out.
“Help...me…”
There it was again. Closer than ever before. It had to be in this room, it very well had to be and if I could get out of this fucking thing’s clutches I’d be all over trying to figure out what it was. Then I’d be more than happy to yell at it for getting me in this situation in the first place and revoke my offer of help.
However, as I finally regain my sense of balance, I steady my focus once more on the mannequin thing that has me trapped.
It’s grown a face. Not just any face though.
Diaz’s face.
“Help...me…” the Diazequin mutters in short choppy bits, almost as if any speaking at all pains it greatly.
“Help...me…”